


The scrapyard

by Nejinee



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Humor, Leverage Crossover, M/M, Scraps, bits and bobs, unfinished snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: Steve/Bucky snippets that don't fit into any whole stories, so they'll just go in here.





	The scrapyard

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all. I have a bunch of stories that, honestly, will probably never reach completion. I've got to be honest with myself here. So instead of having them languish and die on my hard drive, I'm going to post them here. They're all nuggets that need a home. :)

Gracie’s on Caton Place was small but felt bigger than it was. It was an old underground pub with pennants and flags decorating the walls that all the Avengers, well, most, would be willing to cross a bridge for. It was cozy and served a slew of international beers and made the best buffalo chicken wings Bucky had ever tasted. The food and booze sold everyone on their first visit, but it was the staff and environment that kept them coming back.

When Tony was with them, the Avengers would give up on disguises and go to the standard burrito joint just round the corner from Stark Tower. He couldn’t do it; couldn’t be subtle, couldn’t reign himself in. So whenever Tony was too busy to hang out, the rest of them would head to Gracie’s.

“How’s the Danish beer?” Steve leaned over to Bucky, licking his buffalo-sauce-coated fingers.

“Damn good,” Bucky murmured, putting the bottle of beer down. He was already on his third batch of wings and could probably handle a few more. He tried not to draw attention to his eating, but when they were in a group like this he could get away with more and the waitress wouldn’t flinch. They were ‘sharing’ after all.

He picked up another wing and bit into the spicy-hot goodness. At Gracie’s they made everything in-house, even their buffalo sauce, and for this, Bucky was grateful. This new century had these _amazing_ spicy and ragingly hot foods. He liked to drag Steve all over God’s green earth, trying out every sort of curry he could get his hands on. The one time they’d passed through Thailand post-mission had been a revelation and a half. He also regularly ordered in spicy Korean chicken and Steve knew by now that if he saw any hot peppers in the grocery store, he was morally and contractually obligated to buy a handful and bring them home to his capsicum-loving life partner. Bucky really did love the hot wings at Gracie’s so he tried his hand at making his own batch at home. Steve had called them ‘dangerous and unlawful’ which was a good a review as any.

“You need more?” Steve pushed his shoulder into Bucky, still wiping at his fingers with one of those throw-away wet wipe things.

“Maybe,” Bucky nodded. “What does everyone else want?”

“I want the house cheesecake,” Clint piped up from across the table. It was round so they could all see each other, hold a proper conversation, unlike those stupid restaurants where they were forced to squeeze into stupid oblong booths and stare at strangers. 

Sam, sitting between Clint and Steve, snorted. “I concur!” he said. “Best cheesecake I’ve ever had.”

“I thought your mother made the best baked goods on earth?” Natasha murmured from Bucky’s other side.

“You dare tell her I said otherwise…” Sam pointed a finger at her and Natasha smirked.

“Hey, it’s starting,” Steve hushed them.

A man with curly brown hair and spectacles got up onto the very small stage set up across the room. This was the other reason they kept coming back here. Every third Thursday (Thirdsday Clint called it) Gracie’s would hold a small talent show and awarded prizes to the people who contributed.

A lot of the shows backed local charities and schools and, for the most part, the Avengers enjoyed the show. One time a very talented band of teenagers got up on stage and played their own set which was very impressive to Bucky. He was never musically talented and watching a bunch of acne-riddled kids do a stellar mini concert for a roomful of strangers was _epic_. They’d been _amazing_ musicians. How these kids had the time to learn guitar, go to school and weave their way through twenty-first century Manhattan was awe-inspiring. Bucky had it hard enough convincing himself to leave the house every couple of days for a coffee run.

Some nights it would be a stream of poets and writers. One time, their motley crew caught the last half hour of a comedy show where amateurs got on-stage to get heckled by their friends. It was all kinds of crazy.

What really sold this whole thing was the pleasantness of it all. This wasn’t a downtown Manhattan dive where people drank their sorrows away. No, this was a small local community pub dedicated to giving back, being positive and making sure everyone who entered its doors left in a better mood.

Again, the buffalo wings were also _beyond_ excellent. They actually _stung_ Bucky’s lips they were so hot.

The host, Silas, was as awkward as they come, but _damn_ was he endearing.

“Folks,” Silas was saying, “We’re honoured to have the duo Michelle and Miguel on-stage tonight to play their set of handmade, uh, _crafted_ musical tidbits.” He pushed at his glasses and waved an arm about. “Uh, so a big hand to them!” The man and woman who got up on the stage after him appeared to be painfully shy, but smiling as they pulled their stools into the spotlight.

The crowd clapped softly and Clint smirked at Natasha who must have then kicked him under the table because Clint jumped in his seat and scowled.

The duo began their song and Bucky leaned over to grab one of Steve’s carrot sticks.

“Hey,” Steve smiled.

“What?” Bucky crunched down on the carrot, maintaining eye contact.

Steve was wearing his dumb-ass disguise: a baseball cap (Boston Bruins this time), black-framed glasses and standard hoodie-t-shirt combo. They always wore the same disguises when coming here.

Natasha’s blonde wig hung to her shoulders, while Clint stuck to a flat-cap and gold-rimmed glasses that made him look like a respectable member of society for once. Clint said he was going for ‘Professor of Economics and Sociology’ while Natasha was going for _‘Tammy, your cousin from Florida’._

Both were good at playing their parts. Natasha was always chewing gum loudly and her nails, well, they were scary. By the fourth visit, Bucky realized Natasha went out of her way to play this character, like it was too good to give up. She’d actively get a manicure and her makeup done just for a quiet show-and-tell night at Gracie’s, even _after_ a mission.

Bucky didn’t get it but somehow, it worked on the civilians. No one ever seemed to see through this lame shit. He had vague memories of Hydra’s attempt to have the Soldier integrate into society. Memories of yellow leather, flared collars and corduroy came to mind. Bucky frowned.

Sam was dressed much like Steve, just sporting a cap, except he’d flipped his backwards for some unfathomable reason (surely in error because the visor side would not allow for sun protection), and he always wore what looked to be sports team apparel covered in logos, implying Sam played for, or heavily supported, the Atlanta Falcons. Also, he wasn’t _Sam Wilson, former U.S. Air Force paratrooper_ , no, he was _Malcolm_ , the loud, obnoxious sports guy with the crazy knowledge about international law and literature, mostly useful on trivia nights.

Bucky liked trivia nights. He didn’t know he knew so much until they’d signed up for a game.

At first he’d been reticent to take part in any of the pub’s communal activities because, well, he _was_ a wanted serial assassin with former ties to Hydra and the destruction of the Triskelion in D.C. 

Sure, the media didn’t have his face or name right, but he couldn’t be too careful. The Winter Soldier was out there, right?

But, a couple years into his reformation, once he got into the culture of Gracie’s, Bucky loosened up. He could let his guard down a little when he was surrounded by a spy, an archer, a flying superhero and an undercover Captain America.

He even kept his own disguise going.

Bucky was _Ethan_ , an engineer. A shy, awkward engineer who worked for the city in some indiscernibly vague department no one cared about. He worked on blueprints and project pipelines in AutoCAD and liked sesame bagels with peanut butter. He wore a smooth leather jacket over heavy turtleneck sweaters with necklines thick enough to bury his chin in. The sweaters all had long sleeves into which he could curl his hands and hide his prosthetic arm. He tied his hair back at the nape of his neck and wore tortoiseshell glasses that were really modern but not eye-catching. Clint always says he looks like a giant nerd.

It worked like magic.

Sam insists he gets away with it because the waitresses think he’s cute. Clint says it’s because no one would expect an ass-kicking, ripped super soldier under that getup.

Natasha thinks people are just stupid and unobservant.

Steve likes it. A lot. But then Steve likes anything within a three foot radius of Bucky.

“So, _Ethan_ ,” Steve said, sipping at his beer. “What do you think of the show so far?”

Bucky eyed the couple on stage. They warbled and sang quite well together, though their stuff was a little too folksy for him. He shrugged. 

“It’s pretty brave, I think,” Clint said, chewing loudly on the bright orange chips the waitress had supplied them. “You know, getting up there and baring it all. I mean, I _could_ do it, but still.” He licked at his bright orange fingertips. It was both gross and mesmerizing.

“That’s because you’re not brave. You’re just devoid of any and all personal filters or sense of modesty,” Natasha said.

“I’m heck brave,” Clint retorted. “Like them.” He jabbed his thumb to the stage behind him.

“I dunno man,” Sam sat back in his seat. “Bravery ain’t getting up on stage and _singing_ the blues.”

“Sure it is,” Clint chewed with his mouth open.

“Stop doing that,” Bucky rumbled.

Clint paused, then started chewing slower, mouth wider.

Bucky glared harder at him.

“Nah, man,” Sam shook his head, ignoring the flying eye daggers shooting across the table, “bravery is stepping out of your comfort zone. Doing something you would never, ever do, right? Something damn scary. Something you don’t _wanna_ do.”

“Agreed,” Natasha nodded and sipped at her luminous green cocktail.

“Yeah, but that comes down to the individual,” Clint said. “So _what_ if you can dive with sharks if really, your big fear is heights?”

“Do fears always equal bravery?” Natasha asked. “I don’t know if standing up on the Empire State Building with a fear of heights begets bravery.”

“Does doing something stupid sometimes also equal being brave?” Steve asked.

“Depends,” Clint shrugged. “How stupid we talking?”

“I don’t have an example,” Steve sighed. “Just wondering.”

“You mean like throwing your only weapon away while your opponent smashes your face in?” Bucky said.

Steve looked at him and blinked. “Well, I mean, that was a very specific, _unique_ situation.” 

Bucky peered at Steve through his slitted eyes.

“How is that different, Steve?”

“Ace. My name, _Ethan_ , is _Ace,_ ” Steve smirked. “God, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

“Shut up,” Bucky shunted his shoulder into Steve’s. “Stupidity ain’t bravery.”

Steve shrugged and slurped at his beer. It wouldn’t get him drunk, but it kept him quiet at least, mellowed him out.

“My point,” Clint went on, “Is who of us do you _really_ think is deserving of Evil McEvilpants’ silent, super-fast, untraceable motorcycle that looks so bad-ass even Han Solo would look uncool on it?”

The table burst into noise.

“Hey look, let’s not get into it here–” Sam started.

“No, it’s going to be me, obviously–” Natasha fired back just as quick.

Bucky sighed and moved to scooch out of his seat. He tilted his head at Steve. “Drink?”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve smiled that sunflower smile of his.

Bucky loped off towards the bar. He’d had enough of this same argument. It kept coming around and around every other day and he was just _done._

To sum it up: recently the Avengers had uncovered an evil genius’ superbike. 

And sure, they may not have handed it over to the feds under the pseudo-umbrella of _‘public safety cannot be assured due to possibly overpowered evil tech stuff getting into the hands of the government’_ , but what they _did_ do was place dibs on who of them should own the damn thing. Yeah, it was the most futuristically high-tech thing Bucky had ever seen outside of one of Clint’s creepy science fiction movies, but who the hell cared? It was just some gadget built by a creepo-wannabe-terrorist who held an entire college at gunpoint for denying him his academic award on his human-experiment-heavy thesis. It involved a lot of genetic fuckery (with photos and graphic details of his malfeasance included) and the university had about lots its damn mind when the material made it inside their hallowed halls. Turned out one of their students was a psychopath bent on engineering beautiful destruction! Hooray.

Sure, they’d dispatched the guy on-site, but the Avengers weren’t saints, exactly. And EvilPants McGee, dead as a doornail, had arrived on some pretty sick tech (as Tony repeated over and over in awe).

The Avengers were still arguing about the stupid bike a week later. They’d laid bets on who was good enough to own it, who was the _bravest_ Avenger, the most _deserving_ Avenger. Which of them could prove their worth, their calibre, and thereby ensure ownership of a freaky neon-lit motorcycle from the year 3042. Like being brave had anything to do with stealing unknown machinery from psychopaths. Stark was the instigator, of course.

Bucky thought the bet was dumb as shit.

He could still make out Clint’s shrill argumentative tone from across the bar.

Bucky leaned against the heavy, carved bartop, waiting his turn.

The bet was dumb. Stark was cawing like a mad magpie about how he’s the only one who could _appreciate_ the machine’s engineering. Bucky had contributed by saying _then build your own,_ which, apparently, was not the right thing to say, going by Stark’s annoyed, pink-tinged glare he shot at Bucky. Even Wilson wanted in on the thing, citing his lack of car (sorry, pal) and being a veteran as reason enough to own it.

Bruce definitely wanted nothing to do with a two-wheeled death-trap, _thanks_ , and Bucky was secretly grateful for that. The thought of the Hulk beaming down the highway, perched precariously on a supershiny purple-flecked motorcycle without a helmet on had awoken alarming new nightmares for Bucky to unpack at a later stage.

Steve didn’t want to get involved. He’d voiced his ire in the beginning about _theft_ and _handing it over to the authorities_ but everyone just rolled their eyes and shrugged him off, like having a functioning set of ethics was somehow a violation of union hours.

Bucky sighed. The bartender came over, her smile kind. “Hi Ethan,” she said. “Two tequila sunrises?”

“Uh,” Bucky blinked and nodded. “And a round of … um, what are those really gross-tasting shots?”

“We have a few,” she laughed, wiping her hands with a towel. Maisie was such a pleasant sort of personality to talk to. 

“The dark beery ones?” Bucky held his palm face-down a few inches above the bartop. “Made my one friend very sick?”

“Umm,” Maisie giggled. “Well…”

“Irish car bombs,” a voice said from Bucky’s right side.

“Ah, yes,” Maisie nodded and punched that into the white flat tablet she carried around. It somehow tapped in orders and the bar didn’t have a physical register which was …strange. _The future._ “Two Irish car bombs. I’ll get those to you ASAP.” She smiled at Bucky and nodded before heading down to the other end of the bar.

Bucky turned to see who had spoken.

He blinked.

It was the spy.

Bucky had seen him here before with his group of loud, argumentative pals.

Either a spy or a fed of some sort. Maybe a crooked cop. He squinted.

He just knew this in his bones by the way the group of them behaved. 

He peered at the man. He had longish hair tucked behind his ears, a plaid shirt over a grey t-shirt, jeans and heavy construction boots.

“Those car bombs’ll knock your teeth out, be careful,” the man said, drinking from his own beer.

Bucky looked around. Was he here alone? Where’d he come from? Had he been at the end of the bar this whole time? Fuck, Bucky was losing his touch.

Bucky tensed.

“Eliot,” the guy murmured, and extended a hand.

Bucky stared at his hand. _The fuck?_ People did _not_ approach him, ever. He wasn’t used to this at all. 

The man, _Eliot_ , smirked. “All right, well, no pretenses.” He leaned in. “I know who you are,” he whispered.

Bucky sat back, hand already going for the blade in the back of his jeans waistband and the other one inside his boot.

“Whoa, whoa, big guy,” Eliot said, hands going up. “It’s not–” he grunted and wiped at his hair, “It’s not like that. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not the enemy.” His eyes flicked to Bucky’s hand, like he knew what was under the soft, thick sweater.

Bucky scowled, heart racing. Was this guy Hydra? Had a cell infiltrated Gracie’s of all places? Fuck. They’d have to move.

“Then what the hell are you?” Bucky said through gritted teeth, heart beating heavily. He’d need to warn Steve and the others. Maybe the place was surrounded. He knew every point of exit from here out but he’d need a few seconds to get rid of this guy and book it to the team. “I know you and your friends aren’t civilians, pal,” Bucky said quietly.

The guy blinked, surprised. “Oh yeah?” He was slower in his speech than Bucky expected. He had a gruff tone to his voice that seemed somewhat familiar. The soft sotuhern drawl was interesting. It was light, but it was there.

“You’re a spy,” Bucky leaned in, firing off. This would rattle most secret operative, getting caught out immediately. 

“And you’re Bucky Barnes,” Eliot smiled, unfazed. 

Bucky blinked. _What?_ He sat back, confused. The guy’s eyes had _lit up_. Oh no. Oh no no no.

“You are a _legend_ ,” Eliot said, holding his big, rough hands up. His nails were clean, but calloused to hell and back. What _did_ the guy _do?_

“I mean,” he went on, “I didn’t peg you at first, a few weeks ago. You got a good look here,” he waved a hand at the dorky engineer outfit. “Pity about the all-american beefcake you got with you, though.” This Eliot guy had a very crooked smile. Why was it even remotely endearing?

Bucky scowled. _Enemy._

“You go near him–” he hissed, fists clenching, “And I’ll–”

The Eliot guy spluttered and laugh. “Whoa, _me_ go against Cap? Oh, brother, I would _love_ to, but I figure at this point, even with _my_ skills, I’d be a dead duck in three seconds.” He glanced around the room. “Nah, I’m saying you wanna be better stealth? Make him stop looking so much like a Ken doll.” The guy smiled some more like he wasn’t afraid _at all_.

“A what?” Bucky scowled. 

“A, you know,” Eliot frowned for a moment. “A Ken doll? It’s like, Barbie’s–you know who Barbie is?” his smile faltered, like he’d too wandered into unknown territory by accident.

Bucky just kept glaring at him through his tortoiseshell spectacles.

“Ah, okay, look it up,” the guy swigged at his beer again. “Just a heads-up, is all,” he tilted his head and slid off his seat. “Sorry to, uh, have bothered you, sir. But I’m a big fan. Just, uh, keep doin’ what you’re doin’.” And with that, he awkwardly backed away and turned, making his way to a table closer to the stage, away from Bucky’s friends.

 

—

“I saw you talking to that guy,” Steve murmured a few minutes later. Bucky had gathered their drinks and gone back to their table, planning, plotting out where in Canada would be best for them to hide. Sakatchewan was remote enough, wasn’t it? Farms and shit? Steve could learn to grow wheat, right? Tractors were easy to run, no? Crap. Bucky didn’t want to _move._

“Yeah,” Bucky said, sliding over the drinks.

“Um, why?” Steve asked.

Bucky looked up at the tone in his voice. Steve only ever sounded like that when he’d done something stupid, like stepping on a landmine and holding his ground while telling everyone else to take cover.

Bucky peered at the love of his life, the man of his dreams, his best friend.

“What the fuck happened?” he asked.

Romanov, Wilson and Barton were most definitely just sitting there, listening in.

“Nothing,” Steve said too quickly. “Anyone want these chips?” He pushed at the orange snacks.

“What. Did. You. Do,” Bucky gritted out. He twisted in his seat. The guy, Eliot, was gone.

Fuck.

“Did you engage with the enemy?” Bucky hissed.

“Engage?” Steve blinked. “Uh, well, not exactly. And, wait, what do you mean, _enemy?_ ”

“He’s very clearly armed forces or somethin’,” Bucky bit out, eyes scanning the room. “He fuckin’ approached me and all, said he’s a _fan,_ Steve.”

“Uh…” Steve blinked. “He’s…enemy?”

“You dumbass, _what happened?_ ”

Steve’s cheeks were pink for some Godforsaken reason.

“Okay, if I tell you, you gotta promise not to laugh.”

“Laugh?” Bucky frowned, a little lost now.

“Um,” Steve rubbed at his mouth with his hand. “I came out the restroom, uh, last week. And, uhm,” he looked around, realizing their friends were all watching. Romanov was sipping at her cocktail, avidly not looking away.

“And, uh, I kinda…grabbed his ass?”

Bucky’s jaw dropped.

“You _what?”_ he breathed out, as visuals of covert operatives stabbing Steve for not being Captain America, but for being a fucking pervert instead, flashed across his eyes. “Why the _fuck_ would you grab some undercover asshole?”

“Uhm,” Steve was really red now. “Okay, don’t be mad, but he looks _a lot_ , from behind, he looks a lot like …you?”

Bucky stared at Steve, dumbfounded.

“You groped a spy and thought it was me? Are you fuckin blind? He doesn’t look anything like me!”

“Well…” Sam crooked his head.

“I wouldn’t argue that hard,” Clint added.

Bucky glared at them through his fake glasses. He turned to Natasha. “Does that guy, that _spy_ look like me?”

Natasha pouted, then shrugged. “From behind? Yeah, I’d say so. His ass is about right.”

Goddamnit.

“So not only has that fuckin’ guy, a probable enemy of the state, or somethin’, been here all along, under my damn nose,” Bucky huffed loudly, fingers scraping at the table’s veneer. “But my stupid idiot boyfriend fuckin’ felt him up as well?”

The other all nodded and smirked, minus Steve.

He breathed out, then in. _Stay calm, Barnes._

He twisted in his seat slowly and glared at Steve, who was pink all over. Bucky wasn’t as angry as he was fucking _embarrassed_.

“We’re moving to Saskatchewan.”

 

—

 

“Look,” Bucky thrust his phone at Steve’s face. “This is a disgrace.”

Steve pulled back, trying to figure out what the little screen was showing him. “What is that?”

“It’s you,” Bucky griped.

They were almost home, walking through the dark alleyways of Brooklyn.

“Is that…a toy?” Steve squinted at the image.

“Yeah,” Bucky grunted and pulled his hand back. “It’s a fuckin’ plastic little American man called Ken and he’s apparently a paramour to another famous toy doll who is, like, a megalomaniac or something, ‘cos she’s got way too much shit and works way too many jobs.”

Steve stared at him.

“I’m sorry, Buck, but _what?_ ”

Bucky sighed loudly.

“You got pinged back there,” he turned angrily to Steve. “That guy knew who you were because you look like this plastic freak.”

Steve looked very confused. “Well, I mean…I don’t actually look like tha–”

“Oh, yes you do,” Bucky sighed, scrolling through the website. “Look, you guys are matching.” And he held his phone up for Steve to see.

And yep, the plastic doll-man was wearing a pretty much identical outfit to what Steve was currently donning, right down to the shoes. Rude.

“Well, what’s the problem?” Steve shrugged.

“You got recognized!” Bucky hissed. “We can’t go back there.”

“Buck,” Steve frowned, “We love Gracie’s. _You_ love Gracie’s. Come on now, it’s a small time pub. Hydra’s not gonna be poisoning the beer in there.”

_Poisoning the beer!_

“Oh, God, wait, Buck, let’s take a step back,” Steve said hastily once he saw the look in Bucky’s eyes. “Don’t be hasty. We can fix this. Was it just one guy?”

Bucky breathed slower, fending off visuals of Steve and Clint dropping dead from drinking stupid lemon-flavoured shots. “Yeah.” He huffed. “This one guy.”

“Well,” Steve said gently, “Then that gives me the chance to fix my disguise, okay?”

Bucky considered all of them just fleeing to Croatia instead of Canada. Steve could become a Croatian farmer. They might be safe there. But the wings…the buffalo wings.

“Did your stomach just rumble?” Steve asked.

“Shut it,” Bucky retorted, “Okay, look, we’re gonna get you a better disguise, but this time, I’m curating this thing. No arguments.”

Steve might have said something more but probably figured it would be futile now, not with Bucky’s jaw set like that.

“All right, fine, Buck,” Steve slipped Bucky’s hand into his. “Whatever makes you happy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Leverage crossover that unfortunately perished in the war. ;__; (Tell me y'all also love Eliot as much as I do?)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading.


End file.
